


Caesar: The Conquest of Gaul

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate meeting [sort of], Fluff, Kidlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: One late night in Northumberland, Sherlock has an odd encounter that shapes his life.





	Caesar: The Conquest of Gaul

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is a title that will draw in hordes of readers, right? But although it flummoxed me for a while, I have ended up happy with the result. Mostly sweetness, I think. So congrats and thanks to those who took a chance on such a dry title and I hope you enjoy this. At least, the length is right for a Postcard!
> 
> One more to go in this series.

It was completely horrible to have the worst big brother in the whole world.

Sherlock just wanted to kick the fat dummy right out of the bed they were being forced to share in this B&B. Some holiday this was turning out to be. He would rather be at home with his experiments and Redbeard. But for some reason, Mummy and Daddy thought they all needed to explore Northumberland and spend time looking at some dumb wall.

Mycroft flopped around again in the bed and his elbow collided painfully with Sherlock’s ribs. Clearly, even while asleep, his brother wanted to torture him. Then, adding insult to injury, Mycroft actually giggled a bit, without waking up, and that was the last straw. Probably he was dreaming about cake or something, but it felt as if he just enjoyed poking Sherlock.

Just because he was fourteen, seven years older than Sherlock, Mycroft thought he was the boss of him. As if.

Feeling a sudden burst of rebelliousness, Sherlock rolled out of the bed. He pulled his trousers on over the pants he had kept on for the night; the t-shirt he was already wearing would be warm enough on this balmy August night. He didn’t bother with his shoes.

It was easy enough to slip out of the bedroom without waking Mycroft. Mummy and Daddy were in a room just across the corridor and he could hear Daddy snoring just a little. It was almost too easy to escape, in part because he had been practising his skills for at least three years. Admittedly, no one in the family had been very impressed with his solitary journey from home to the British Museum a few months ago, but tonight he intended to be back in the bedroom before anyone even knew he was gone. In another few moments, he was out of the house and walking through the moonlit night towards the bloody wall.

As he walked, Sherlock thought through what he had read in the guidebook from the Tourist Board shop. Construction on the wall had started in 122 A.D. and finished fourteen years later. It was 117 km long and was supposed to protect Roman Britain from the barbarians to the north. That would be the Scots, he assumed, and the thought made him giggle. A wall would have been very handy to protect him from his most recent tutor, a barbarian from the north called Mr MacKenzie. Well, possibly not an actual barbarian, but certainly an annoying idiot. It had been nice to see the last of him, although Sherlock had to admit that going off to school in only a month was somewhat…intimidating. He pushed thoughts of that aside for the present.

It turned out that the wall was rather farther away than it had looked from the bedroom window of the B&B and so it took him almost fifteen minutes to reach it, by which time he was admittedly getting a bit tired. Walking in the country was different from getting around on the streets of London.

Finally, he made his way to the top of a small rise and dropped to the grass gratefully.

So that was Hadrian’s Wall. Or what was left of it anyway.

Frankly, he thought that any determined barbarian would have little trouble climbing over it. Or storming one of the gates he had read about earlier. Especially with good horses. Did the Romans have horses? He searched his memory file. Yes. They had chariots, right? And so probably the barbarians had horses as well.

Honestly, Sherlock was not very interested in history anyway; science was more his field.

He gave an indignant huff when the memory of Mycroft laughing at him earlier in the day returned. “You’re very stupid, Sherlock,” he’d said, not for the first time. Mummy shushed him, of course, but behind her back he just frowned and shook his head mournfully, as if he could not bear the sadness of having such a stupid little brother.

Someday, Sherlock thought, he would show Mycroft how smart and how brave he was. Then he snickered a little, imagining his horrid brother walking the plank, while Captain Sherlock ate cake and watched.

Just as he was starting to think about heading back to the B&B before he fell asleep right there in the grass, Sherlock heard a faint noise that did not belong in the quiet night out here in the country. At first, he couldn’t identify the low rumble, which made him think briefly of the Underground, but as it got closer, he realised that it was the noise of feet, many feet, moving towards him. He sat up for a better view of the wall and then he saw them.

It was as if the drawings in the guide book had come to life.

A line of men that stretched into the darkness was moving along the wall towards the remains of the gate and then going through it to the other side. They wore short tunics and close-fitting leather trousers as well as shining metal helmets. Each man carried a spear and shield. None of them seemed to notice the small boy huddled in the grass, unmoving and silent.

At least, no one noticed him until suddenly a young boy, who also wore a tunic and sandals, but no helmet, seemed to look right at him. He carried no spear or shield, but instead had only a leather bag hung over one shoulder. And as the line moved past the rise where Sherlock sat, he looked over and smiled.

Despite his uncertainty about what he was seeing, Sherlock smiled back. The boy looked to be three or four years older than he, with dirty blond hair and a short, but sturdy build. After a moment, he stepped from the line and walked closer.

“Hello,” Sherlock said. Then he realised that this boy, whoever he was, might not speak English. Would it be Latin? He couldn’t remember reading that in the guidebook. Truthfully, Mycroft scoffed at his few Latin phrases anyway.

But it didn’t seem to matter now, because the boy just smiled again. “Hello,” he said in a soft voice.

Sherlock was trying to remember the lessons in good manners that Mummy was always trying to teach him. “Would you like to sit down?” he said, gesturing towards the grass beside him as if it were a fine chair.

“Thank you. Just for a moment, though, as I don’t want to fall behind.”

“Are you a soldier?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I am too young.” The boy straightened proudly. “I am a courier.” He patted the leather bag. “I carry important letters.” His dark brown eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “My name is Ioannes.” He held out a hand.

Sherlock took the small but strong [and somewhat grimy] hand into his own and they shook. “I am Sherlock,” he said. “Have you walked a long way?”

Ioannes nodded. “Ever so far.”

Sherlock studied him, wanting to do as Mycroft did, trying to read the boy before him. “Don’t you miss your parents?”

There was a pause. “I have no father anymore and my mother must take care of the little ones. It is better if I am on my own.” He spoke plainly, but Sherlock could see sadness in his eyes.

Words he had heard Daddy say in a similar situation came to Sherlock. “You have my sympathy.”

Ioannes nodded, accepting what he’d said.

They both watched the marching soldiers for a moment.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked finally.

“To battle the Picts.”

“Are they barbarians?”

Ioannes paused thoughtfully, the pink tip of his tongue sticking out. “I suppose they must be. But I also think they are people. That is what my father always said and he was a very wise man.”

“My Mummy is very wise,” Sherlock said. “Daddy is very kind.”

Something occurred to Sherlock and he did not much care for the idea.  
“Will you be in the battle?” he asked. Sherlock didn’t like to think about this boy being hurt or worse.

“I will be doing what I do,” Ioannes said simply. “The Prefect will have a letter for the Imperial Legate and I must run across the battlefield to deliver it. Then I will carry an answer back to the Prefect.”

“You’re very brave.”

Ioannes just shrugged. “What about you?” he asked then. “Why are you out here alone tonight?”

It seemed too embarrassing to admit that he just wanted to get away from his fat brother, so Sherlock ignored the question completely and instead said, “I might be a scientist. Or a pirate.”

Ioannes grinned. “Oh, I should like to be a pirate!”

“We should run away to sea,” Sherlock said.

“That would be a grand adventure, my friend.”

They looked at one another for a moment and then Sherlock remembered something in one of the adventure books Daddy had read him when he was younger and not yet reading on his own. “We could be best friends,” he suggested. “Blood brothers.”

Ioannes glanced at the marching line of men; the end seemed to be in sight. “All right,” he said. “I’ve never had a best friend.”

Sherlock did not say that he was friendless as well. Instead, he just reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny Swiss Army knife that he had…liberated from Mycroft’s daypack. “We have to cut our fingers and mingle the blood. Is that all right?”

“I don’t mind.”

Sherlock cut his finger first; it hurt no more than a bad paper cut. Then he handed the little blade to Ioannes, who did the same. They pressed their fingertips together. It seemed as if something should be said and Sherlock tried to remember more from the book, but it had really been rather boring, therefore not worth keeping in his mind. So instead, he made something up. “I promise to be best friends with you forever,” he said softly.

“I promise to be best friends with you forever,” Ioannes said. Then he stood. “I must go now, my friend,” he said.

Sherlock stood as well and suddenly the other boy threw his arms around him. They hugged for a moment and then Ioannes was running back to the marching army. “Be very careful,” Sherlock shouted after him.

The boy [his friend?] gave him a wave and then disappeared into the crowd.

Sherlock dropped back into the grass and stuck his still-stinging finger into his mouth as he watched the Roman soldiers vanish into the night. Sleepily, he thought about going back to the B&B.

The next thing he was aware of was Daddy’s voice saying his name while shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find that it was morning and that his father’s worried face was hovering over him.

“You naughty boy,” Daddy said. “We have been so worried about you.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered, trying to wake himself up. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Daddy tut-tutted some more, but it was clear that relief had overtaken both the worry and his anger. He reached for Sherlock’s hand. “And look,” he said. “You’ve cut your finger on a sharp stone.”

“No,” Sherlock started. “That was…” He bit off his own words, not sure that he should share what had happened. Especially since he wasn’t even sure what actually _had_ happened.

Luckily, Daddy didn’t notice, as he was busy hustling Sherlock back across the field towards the B&B. 

Once, quickly, Sherlock glanced back towards the wall.

 

*

By the time so many years later, when Sherlock met an ex-soldier named John in a lab at St. Barts, he had forgotten all about that night beside Hadrian’s Wall. But as he took the offered phone, and looked into John’s soft brown eyes, something inside him stirred. It took a long time for him to recognise it for what it was.

And even longer to name it aloud. Or, at least, to whisper it into John’s ear.

_Amo. Amas. Amamus._

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Caesar: The Conquest of Gaul translated by S.A. Handford


End file.
